The idea that I can’t go there gives me, for the first time since the battle, a shut-in feeling.  I talked to the garde champetre, whom I met on the road, as I returned from the mairie, and I asked him what he thought about the risk of my going to Couilly.  He looked properly grave, and said: 

“I would not, if I were in your place.  Better run no risks until we understand what this is to lead to.”

I thanked him, with an expression just as serious and important as his.  “I’ll obey,” I said to myself, “though to obey will be comic.”

So I turned the corner on top of the hill.  I drove close to the east side of the road, which was the Quincy side, and as I passed the entrance to Amelie’s court I called to Pere to come out and get Ninette and the cart.  I then climbed out and left the turn-out there.

I did not look back, but I knew Pere was standing in the road looking after me in amazement, and not understanding a bit that I had left my cart on the Quincy side of the road for him to drive it into Couilly, where I could not go.

“I’ll obey,” I repeated to myself, viciously, as I strolled down the Quincy side of the road and crossed in front of the gate where the whole width of the road is in my commune.

I hadn’t been in the house five minutes before Amelie arrived.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded, breathlessly.

“Nothing.”

“Why didn’t you drive into the stable as usual?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“Because I am forbidden to go to Couilly.”

I thought she was going to see the joke and laugh.  She didn’t.  She was angry, and I had a hard time to make her see that it was funny.  In fact, I did not really make her see it at all, for an hour later, wanting her, I went up to the Quincy side of the road, leaned against the wall, opposite her entrance, and blew my big whistle for ten minutes without attracting her attention.

That attempt at renewing the joke had two results.  I must tell you that one of the few friends who has ever been out here felt that the only annoying thing about my being so absolutely alone was that, if anything happened and I needed help, I had no way of letting anyone know.  So I promised, and it was agreed with Amelie, that, in need, I should blow my big whistle—­it can be heard half a mile.  But that was over two years ago.  I have never needed help.  I have used the whistle to call Dick.

I whistled and whistled and whistled until I was good and mad.  Then I began to yell:  “Amelie—­Melie—­Pere!” and they came running out, looking frightened to death, to find me, red in the face, leaning against the wall—­on the Quincy side of the road.

“What’s the matter?” cried Amelie.

“Didn’t you hear my whistle?” I asked.

“We thought you were calling Dick.”

The joke was on me.

When I explained that I wanted some fresh bread to toast and was not allowed to go to their house in Couilly for it, it ceased to be a joke at all.